


Something for No One

by Alvitr



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-01 01:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4001083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alvitr/pseuds/Alvitr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hollister makes a different decision about Lister's cat, and it has a domino effect on the resulting series of events. Lister doesn't go into stasis, Rimmer doesn't repair the drive plate, the radiation leak never happens. Instead of a couple of bums alone in space 3 million years into the future, Rimmer deals with his father's death! Lister decides to try to be Rimmer's friend! We go to Io! Portraits of respected historical figures are defaced! Frankenstein has kittens! Rimmer ponders a career change! And more…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which Hollister declares his love of cats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “But didn’t everyone get everything? Hadn’t they had enough yet? … But where are the things that no one wants? Every now and then Alex would see or hear something that appeared to be for no one but soon enough turned out to be for someone and, after a certain amount of advertising revenue had been spent, would explode into the world for everyone. Who was left to make stuff for no one? Just Alex. Only he.”  
> \-- Zadie Smith, _The Autograph Man_

The game was clearly up. Lister had nowhere to turn; yet again, he found himself in a position of such absurdity that he wondered what in the smeg he’d done to find himself here, on this smegging ship, facing this insurmountable obstacle.

“Not only are you so stupid,” Hollister opined, “that you sneak an unvaccinated cat on board, but you also take a picture of yourself with the cat and take it to be processed at the ship’s lab.” Red Dwarf’s captain held up the offending photo; Lister felt a surge of panic go through him. “Luckily,” Hollister concluded, steepling his fingers, “luckily for you Lister, I love cats.”

Lister blinked, surprised. The conversation had taken a shift that he certainly had not expected. He felt rather like his life had suddenly veered off its established path and was presently chugging along a strange, dirt road into the unknown. “Er … that’s … good?”

“Yes, it is good, Lister. Which is why I’m going to let you keep your cat … so long as you do two things: take it down to the lab and get it smegging vaccinated! And confine it to your quarters. No letting it run around the corridors, or into the heating ducts, or anything like that. If you can’t keep that cat under control, then it’s gone. Am I making myself clear?”

“Uh … yes, sir!” Lister did an approximation of a salute and clicked his heels, grinning. “Yes, sir, Captain Hollister!”

* * *

When he returned to his quarters, Frankenstein in his arms, it was nearly three o’clock. Rimmer was sprawled out on the lower bunk, face down, a plastic tag from his visit to the infirmary still around his wrist. He’d stripped down to his undershirt and boxers, and Lister could see there were still traces of black ink covering his arms and legs. Snorting and shaking his head, Lister deposited Frankenstein onto the floor and went in search of some tinned tuna. “You deserve it, girl,” he said after locating the tin and opening it. “I smegging hate needles.” Frankenstein answered with an annoyed mrawr, and he planted a kiss on the top of her head.

A little bit later, Rimmer finally seemed to be returning to life. He made a slight groan and shifted in his bunk. Curious, Frankenstein leapt up onto the bunk and began licking one of his hands.

“Ugggh?” Rimmer murmured into his pillow. “Izzat you … Rachel?”

Lister snorted, and the sound brought Rimmer around. He lifted his head from the pillow and looked around, bleary-eyed. When he spotted the cat, he jerked back, promptly hitting his head on the wall behind him. “ _What the smeg is that?_ ”

“It’s a cat,” Lister said slowly, as one might speak to a small child.

“Why is there _a cat in my bunk_ , Lister?” Rimmer swatted at Frankenstein, who hissed and then ran to hide behind beneath Lister’s chair.

“She’s my new pet, so you’d best get used to her.”

“Pet!” Rimmer spat, propping himself on an elbow. “Pet! We don’t have pets, Lister! Space Corps directive 18695 clearly states …” He paused, looking lost. “18695 …18695 … slash...”

“Hollister gave me his permission. She’s vaccinated an’ all.”

“This is preposterous!” Rimmer sputtered, having abandoned his sleepy effort to recall the wording of Space Corps directive 18695/whatever. “Did no one think to ask me? I live here too! Tell me, Lister, why didn’t the Captain ask me first?”

“Probably because you were in the infirmary, recovering from your latest psychotic episode, covered in sweat and black permanent marker.”

Lister enjoyed the next few moments, as he watched realization slowly dawn on Rimmer’s face: _I’ve failed again …_ Rimmer moaned and buried his face back into his pillow. “Oh smeg. Ohsmegohsmegohsmeg. I can’t believe it.”

“I can.”

“I was so close this time. So close. But no. This is it. My life is over. I’m never going to pass this smegging exam.”

Lister began to feel a little bad at this point. It was only fun needling Rimmer when he was puffed up with delusions of his own superiority; when he acknowledged his utter failure, it started to get a bit depressing. “Smeg, Rimmer. Relax.”

“Relax?” Rimmer turned his head on his pillow so that his face was directed towards Lister. “Relax? Well, thank you, Dr. Lister. All of my problems are now solved. I expect you’ll be starting up your own private practice soon. Ah, if only the whole world were just as relaxed as you, Lister. What an idyllic place that would be!” Scowling, he buried his face in his pillow again.

Lister reflected on this for a moment, scooping up Frankenstein and placing her in his lap. “Yeah! It probably would be.”

Rimmer made a noise of deep pain and annoyance.

"Look,” Lister said, his general dislike for Rimmer warring with his temporary pity for the smegger, “tonight you and I are going down to the CopaCabana and I am buying you a drink. You just need something to take your mind off of your problems.”

Rimmer, face still down, waved him away with one hand. “No thank you,” he mumbled into the pillow. “I’m staying in tonight and the only thing I’ll be drinking is a glass of diluted cyanide.”

Rolling his eyes, Lister got up and threw Frankenstein onto the prone body of Second Technician Arnold Judas Rimmer, BSc, SSc, who promptly screamed like a little girl. “Mate, get over yourself. I’ll see you at –“ he checked his invisible watch – “21:00 hours.”

* * *

“Y’know what really gets me,” Rimmer sputtered, holding forth over his fifth lemon spritzer, his eyes faintly bloodshot. “Y’know what _really_ kills me?”

“Wha’?” Lister responded, fairly certain this conversation had already occurred that night. Smeggin’ hell, Rimmer couldn’t hold his alcohol.

“S’that … I could have been somebody. Maybe. If I’d … tried.” Rimmer picked up his glass and began painting the surface of the bar with its ring of condensation.

“Wha’daya mean, Rimmer? You are somebody! You’re the king of the vending machines on this smegging vessel! Nobody can take that away from you!” Lister giggled.

Rimmer crossed his arms on the bar and rested his head on them, laughing as though this were the funniest thing he had ever heard, until there were tears running out of the corners of his eyes. He was definitely, totally, positively, absolutely very drunk. Lister was pretty soused, himself, but a drunk Rimmer was an unexpectedly delightful experience. He found everything hilarious. He was even more loquacious than normal, which was saying something. All of his myriad fidgety habits were amplified to the point of such excess that they somehow became simultaneously irritating and endearing – he drummed his fingers almost incessantly; he jiggled his legs like a kid on a sugar high; he snatched at his hair in frustration so that now it was a nightmare, insane frizzy curls sticking out everywhere. Most of the time, he grinned like a moron. Lister hadn’t been so entertained in ages.

“No, no …. What I mean is,” Rimmer said, continuing his previous thought stubbornly, like a dog sniffing out a half-buried corpse, “I mean, I had other int’rests. Y’know that, Lister? Being an officer wasn’t even my dream at all! I’ve spent my whole life doing what somebody else wants!”

“Really?” Lister inquired, smiling. He hoped he wasn’t going to be treated to another rant about Rimmer’s parents, or even worse, a story about Rimmer’s love of hammond organ music.

“Yes.” Rimmer turned to him, very serious, and suddenly looking very sober, though his eyes were still bleary and unfocused. “Yes. And that, Lister,” he said, enunciating carefully, “is why I hate you so _much_.” And then he smiled blissfully.

Unexpectedly blind-sided by this – the words were said so calmly, and yet strangely enough, with no rancor, but just in a completely matter-of-fact way – Lister blinked. “What? Why?”

“Because,” Rimmer said, pointing his finger at him and cocking an eyebrow, “you still have your dreams, Lister. You didn’t … throw them away like a cheap hooker after a weeklong bender.” He drained his glass and slammed it on the bar. This display of aggression was somewhat dimmed by the fact that the glass in question was a fine-stemmed martini glass, with a slice of lemon and a sprig of mint still in it.

“Wait!” Lister said, laughing. “I thought I had no ambition, man! What are you talking about?”

Rimmer, still grinning madly, slid his arm around Lister’s shoulders. “I think,” he said, “I’m going to pass out now.”

“Boss thinkin’!” Lister replied, and then Rimmer fell off of his stool.

* * *

There was something warm vibrating on his chest.

Rimmer cracked an eye open and was greeted by two large green eyes, blinking at him. This was followed by an overwhelming wave of nausea.

“Ohhh … smeg.” He rolled off of the bunk, Lister’s cat yowling and scooting away. He barely managed to crawl over to the vicinity of the toilet and command it to fold out from the wall before he began retching up everything he’d ever eaten in his life. He even thought at one point he saw the burnt umber crayon he’d once eaten in nursery school.

Afterwards, he lay down on the floor, leaning his cheek against its coolness. “Ugggh,” he said.

“ _Mow_ ,” said Frankenstein.

“ _Rrrrrrrrrrr_ ,” snored Lister, sounding like a cement mixer.

Rimmer fell back to sleep.

* * *

He was awoken at some indeterminable time later by the thud of a glass jar being placed in front of his face.

“Whathis?” he slurred, without moving.

Lister stepped over him and turned on the faucet. He didn’t seem to have much of a hangover. The bastard. “Umeboshi.”

“Umawhat?”

Lister began shaking up his can of shaving cream. “Hangover remedy. I learned it from this girl I dated for about a week at Art College. Well, she was at Art College for the week, not me. Anyway, just eat one of those little suckers and you’ll be right as rain in a little bit.”

Rimmer spent a few minutes mulling this information over, and then a few minutes more trying to remember how his arms worked. He pulled himself into sort of a sitting position at last and unscrewed the jar. A sour smell wafted up to him. Wrinkling his nose, he decided he had nothing to lose – the taste couldn’t be any worse than the inside of his mouth currently, which was what he imagined one of Lister’s socks would taste like after having been boiled in a vat of stomach acid. He fished one of the weird, squishy red pickled fruits out and, closing his eyes and hoping he didn’t vomit again, popped it in his mouth.

Lister smirked at him as his face screwed up, chewing the salty and sour plum. “Don’t forget to spit out the pit!” Rimmer spat it into his hand and then swallowed, regretfully. Well … it had certainly taken the taste away, he supposed. He crawled back over to his bunk and curled up into a fetal position. He’d just lay here for a bit … until he felt better … then he’d get ready and study. Study. He winced at the memory of the previous day’s exam. The thought of astronavigation made him fear that Lister’s putrid umeboshi might come up. Perhaps not study, then.

Lister finished shaving and busied himself getting some milk and crispies out for his cat. If anything, the smegger seemed to be more energetic after a night out drinking. Just one more reason Rimmer hated him.

Hated him …

_”And that, Lister, is why I hate you so much.”_

Ugh, smeg. He’d probably said all sorts of pathetic things last night; it was all a bit of a blur, really. He hoped he hadn’t started singing at one point. The first time he’d ever gotten really, badly drunk was the night before his first lecture at Io Polytechnic. He’d worked himself into going out with some of the other students at his orientation and wound up acting out nearly all the plot of _Les Miserables_ by the end of the night. His nickname had been “Cosette” for the rest of the term. He’d been late the next morning, too, and his father, the lecturer, had made him pay for it dearly.

As he tried to distract himself from memories of himself standing on a chair while belting out “Do You Hear the People Sing?” he discovered that, much to his surprise, Lister’s hangover remedy seemed to be working. He felt markedly better. He slowly uncurled himself and sat up in his bunk, testing the waters. He rubbed his face. “What happened last night?” he asked around a yawn.

“What happened?” Lister turned and looked at him. He was in the middle of shaving, and half of his face was covered with Brillo. “What happened, Rimmer, was that you had a smegging good time, forgot about your smegging troubles for a bit, and are probably all the better for it.” He finished shaving and rinsed off his face. “I’m going to hit up the vending machines. Y’want anything?”

Rimmer waved him away irritably.

“Trust me, Rimmer, you need to eat. I’ll get you a croissant or something. And drink some smegging water.” Lister pulled his hat firmly onto his head and swaggered out of their room.

Rimmer sighed and dragged himself to his feet. He stumbled over to the sink, filled his water glass up, and chugged it down. As he put the glass down he caught sight of his arm -- the smears of black ink and the plastic bracelet he hadn’t bothered to take off last night. Cursing, he looked around for something to cut it with, and finding nothing, ripped it off with his teeth and threw it away. Then he walked over to the wall where his study timetable was still handing, tore it down, ripped it into pieces, and threw that away too.

* * *

By the time Lister had returned, laden with food, Rimmer had showered and dressed himself, and felt nearly normal again, and certainly hungry. Luckily, Lister had brought more than just the proffered croissant.

Rimmer paced up and down the room, sipping tea and rubbing restlessly at the marks on his arm, which still hadn’t quite come off in the shower. Lister was sitting with his boots up on the table, stuffing his face with a cinnamon bun.

“So, here’s the thing,” he said abruptly, and Rimmer felt as though Lister were picking up a conversation they’d been having, though he couldn’t remember when. “If y’want to know what I think --”

“Not particularly --”

“I think you should take one of them career assessment tests they give in personnel.”

“What?” Rimmer ceased pacing, cup halfway to his mouth. “What are you talking about?”

“Y’know, they analyze your personality and reactions and figure out what you’re best suited to do. Peterson did it, that’s how he became a caterin’ officer. He’s a dead good cook, too.”

Rimmer scowled and put the tea down. “Absolutely not.” Preposterous! A smegging chef? What kind of officer was that? Dimly, he considered the very real prospect that taking such a test would merely confirm his worst fears, and the often repeated taunts of his family -- that he wasn’t really suited for any profession. He had zero talent and ability. He’d be a second technician for the rest of his days.

“Well,” Lister said with a gusty sigh, “Think on it, will ya?” He balled up the paper bag his breakfast had been packaged in and pitched it into the trash, pumping his fist when it flipped off the wall and landed right in. “Right then. I’m out. Goin’ to see if the mail pod’s arrived yet. See ya, Rimmer. Bye, Frankenstein!” He made some embarrassing smooches towards the cat, which was currently curled up asleep on his bed, and left.

Rimmer stared at the door after he left, then finished his tea and went over his desk. He pulled down one of his astronavigation books, opened it randomly, and stared hard at the page. It might as well have been written in Sanskrit. For a moment he let all the frustration and disgust well up inside of his -- smeg, he was heartily sick of all of this! Then he groaned and laid his head down on the book and closed his eyes.

He’d think about it later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote most of the first chapter of this story in 2009. It's always been one of the most favorite things I've written and never posted anywhere. I found it again recently and, having just watched Series X, several things fell into place that gave me big ideas for where this story should go. I have a fair amount more written, so expect more soon.


	2. In which Lister and Rimmer commit petty acts of vandalism

Several days later, when they went to pick up their work orders for the day, there was an unusual request in the pile.

> _TASK: Faulty drive plate -- needs assessment and stabilization._
> 
> _LOCATION: Deck 899, astern, #4891B.2_
> 
> _PRIORITY LEVEL: Urgent_
> 
> _SHIFT CLEARANCE: G or higher_

“Wait, what’s this?” Lister said, snatching it out of Rimmer’s hand. “This must be a mistake.”

“No, it isn’t, Lister, shove off!” Rimmer said, reaching for it. On that little slip of paper he could suddenly see his future. He’d repair that drive plate spanking new, and Hollister would be so impressed by him that he’d fast track him into an officer position, finally noticing that his skills were wasted in this job.

“Rimmer,” Lister said slowly, holding the work order out of his grasp. “Have you lost your marbles? We’re vending machine repairmen. We don’t know how to repair drive plates. Do you want to get yourself killed? Or maybe the whole ship?” He stomped over to the desk and shook the paper at the receptionist. “Scuse me. We’re Z Shift, this ain’t for us.”

Rimmer glowered at him. “I’ll report you for this, Lister.”

“Report me for what? Savin’ you from radiation poisonin’?”

“Interfering with a superior officer in the line of duty!”

“Whatever, Rimmer.” Lister picked up the first work order and looked at it. “Come on, the machine on Deck 201 is leaking Lucozade all over the hallway again.”

* * *

Rimmer refused to speak to Lister for the rest of the day, working in bristling silence, not even bothering to order Lister around as he normally loved to do. Lister watched his bowed, curly head as he bent over the innards of the sports drink machine, mouth twisted in an angry, sour line. He kept his mouth shut, too. He felt as though one misplaced prod might send Rimmer into hysteria.

After their shift was over, Lister didn’t bother going back to their room; he merely watched Rimmer stalk down the hallway, gaze fixed straight ahead. No matter how furious Rimmer was about it, Lister knew that disaster would have only resulted if they had tried to repair that plate. It was a good thing he was around to keep the guy out of trouble.

He decided to go check on the mail pod again. It hadn’t arrived yet when he’d last taken a look; sometimes they got caught in customs at little moons and stations that they passed. But when he got down to the mailroom this time, he was in luck; it had arrived earlier in the afternoon and the scutters were just finishing sorting everyone’s mail into their mailboxes.

“Lister, David,” he said to the mailbox, and it popped open, revealing a heaping pile of junk mail in his name. “Brutal,” he said, scooping it up. Then he thought a moment.

“Oi, Selby,” he called out. His mate worked down here, supervising the scutters; now he was leaning against a mail cart, smoking a cigarette. “Can y’get me Rimmer’s mail? Might as well bring it to him.”

Selby shrugged and punched in the override code for Rimmer’s box. Inside there was only one letter, in a red envelope, plus a mailing from Outland Revenue. Lister sighed and took it. He’d hoped grabbing Rimmer’s mail might be considered a peace offering, but Rimmer would more likely be embarrassed and insulted at his paltry haul in comparison to Lister’s. Ah, well. There was nothing for it.

He shuffled off back to their rooms, trying not to drop any of his mailers on the way. “Open,” he barked at the door, and once inside dumped his mail on the table. Rimmer was sitting at his desk with his book open, ignoring him. Lister didn’t think he was reading, though. One hand was clenching the edge of the desktop so hard his knuckles were white. Lister noticed, however, that Frankenstein was curled up in his lap. The cat seemed to have taken a liking to Rimmer, who had gradually been worn down from outright opposition to the cat’s presence to a kind of uncomfortable tolerance.

Lister looked down at the two pieces of mail in his hand, and then discreetly tucked the Outland Revenue letter under his own pile of mail. That might be best saved for another date; he’d say it had gotten mixed in with his own stuff, perhaps.

“Rimmer, grabbed your mail for you.” He stuck the red envelope out over Rimmer’s shoulder. He couldn’t help but peek at the address on the label. “Rear Admiral Lieutenant General Arnold J. Rimmer”? Smeg. How embarrassing.

Rimmer reached up without looking at him and plucked the letter from his grasp, a little roughly. Lister sighed and sat down at the table to start going through his mail. He heard the rustling and ripping of paper as Rimmer opened the letter, then silence. He’d just begun reading about an offer for free condom samples when Rimmer’s chair screeched, pushed back as he stood up very suddenly. Frankenstein jumped to the ground, landed on her feet, and shook her head with annoyance.

Lister twisted his head around to look, and stopped dead as he saw the expression on Rimmer’s face. His skin was pale, his eyes wide, his mouth agape as he stared fixedly at the letter in front of him.

“What is it, Rimmer?” he asked, concerned despite himself.

Rimmer looked at him, really looked at him, properly for the first time since the morning. “My father’s dead.”

* * *

Lister watched from his bunk as Rimmer solemnly filled his suitcase with various belongings: brylcream, toothpaste, socks, a black suit that Lister had never seen him wear but which he had produced from the back of his closet without comment. He thought back to the conversation he and Rimmer’d had in the aftermath of the news of his father’s death. A dreadful shock had overcome him. For a moment, Lister had been certain he might pass out.

_“I’m so sorry, man. Here, sit down, you’ve had a real blow. You okay?”_

_“Okay?”_

_“This must be really difficult for you. Here, you want a cup of tea? Or hey, how about something stronger? I’ve got a bottle of Glenfiddich hidden away here. Here you go. Drink that. Wow. You must have been pretty close, eh?”_

_“Close?”_

_“Very close?”_

_“Close? … I hated him.”_

Lister shook his head, recalling the rest of the conversation: Rimmer’s recounting of his father’s ridiculous demands on his children, teenaged Rimmer’s divorce from his parents, and the still potent yearning he had for his father’s approval. It all jived more or less with Rimmer’s drunken statements from the night of the failed exam, Lister thought. What a mess!

After he’d pulled himself together, Rimmer’d gone down to the communications bank to contact his mother. He’d returned, scowling and stamping, his face red. “The smegging funeral is tomorrow,” he’d said, jerking his suitcase out of the closet. “I asked her why she’d mailed me instead of calling into the emergency line, and she said she thought I wouldn’t care to go! Unbelievable! Now I have to take a red eye for eleven hours just to get there in time. In fact, I’ll be lucky if I’m not late.”

“Why d’you want to go?” Lister asked now, as Rimmer threw in his razor and shaving cream. “If you hate him so much?”

Rimmer stared at him as though he was mentally incompetent. “I have to go,” he said. “It’s my father’s funeral.” He looked down at his suitcase, and closed it, glumly. “I just wish …”

“What?”

“They’re all going to ignore me,” he muttered. “They obviously don’t even want me there. Mother even told me to stay at a hotel, she said Frank’s kids are staying in my old room.” He zipped the suitcase closed, his mouth a crooked, tense line.

Lister considered this. A thought was brewing in the back of his mind. “Y’know,” he said casually, “I’ve got some leave saved up. I was going to use it to go on holiday with Kochanski, but that’s scuppered now she’s dumped me.” He gauged Rimmer’s reaction to this statement, but his roommate was still staring at his suitcase without emotion. “Want me to come with you?”

That got Rimmer’s attention. “Excuse me?” he said.

“Y’know,” Lister said. “For moral support, like.” At Rimmer’s continued incomprehension, he went on, “I mean, I don’t have to go to the actual service, if you don’t want me to. You don’t have to introduce me to your family or nothin’. I’d just be a friendly face.” He smiled.

“A friendly face?” Rimmer repeated skeptically.

“Sure. I’m friendly, ain’t I?” Lister hopped down from the bunk and spread his arms, grinning a little.

Rimmer blinked. His expression was unreadable. “I have to leave in forty-five minutes,” he said finally.

“That’s fine! I can get my stuff together in no time!”

“What about the cat?”

“Oh, one of the guys can stop in and feed her. It’ll be fine.” He paused, evaluating Rimmer’s reaction to this; it was a testament to how out of sorts his roommate was that he didn’t think to object to one of Lister’s friends entering their room without supervision. “I’ll go down to the Leave Office with you and file for my leave while you fill out your bereavement forms and arrange for transport. Oh! And I’ll find a hotel room at the travel kiosk while you do that. Eh?”

Rimmer stared at him for a moment, and then, looking almost dazed, nodded. “Okay,” he said.

“Great,” Lister said enthusiastically, though inside he was deeply shocked that Rimmer had agreed. He dashed over to his locker, pulling out a bag, and began throwing clothing into it. “I’ll be ready in a minute! Don’t worry!”

Why, Lister wondered, as he frantically packed his bag, was he even doing this? Well, he supposed part of it was an excuse to go on a quick holiday off ship. He’d been really looking forward to going away with Kochanski, and since the break up he hadn’t really had the heart to go off alone, and all of his mates had used their time up already.

Also, he supposed he actually felt pretty bad for Rimmer. Maybe now he’d forgive him for taking away that drive plate job, and start talking to him again.

* * *

Under an hour later, they were squeezing on board White Giant on an express shuttle to Io. Lister had, true to his word, found a decently priced hotel in Galileo III, Io’s main city. Now it was just him and Rimmer, alone inside the snug cab of the transport vessel. There was very little personal space; just two seats next to each other, and then two opposite. Rimmer took one on one side and threw his bag across from him, so Lister did the same on the opposite side. The doors sealed behind them with a loud suctioning noise.

White Giant’s automated announcement began. _“Attention, passengers: we will depart from the JMC Mining Ship Red Dwarf momentarily. Please fasten yourself into your security harness. Our estimated arrival on Io is in ten hours, forty-three minutes. Local time will be: nine thirty-four a.m. Thank you and prepare for take off in ten … nine … eight ....”_

Lister fastened his harness and settled in, putting his feet up on his bag across from him. Rimmer grimaced at him, then crossed his arms, leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

“Y’goin’ to sleep then?”

Rimmer grunted, and Lister sighed as around them the ship began to shudder and shake. He closed his eyes. He may as well get some shut eye, too.

* * *

Ten or so hours later, they entered Io’s orbit. Lister had slept fitfully, waking often, disoriented and cramped. Sometimes when he woke up, Rimmer was fast asleep; other times he was also awake and reading a thick book the Battle of Waterloo. One time he was merely staring up at the ceiling of the transport vessel, one hand pressed to his forehead as though it pained him.

The descent was long and tedious, and when they finally docked and the doors hissed open, Lister was momentarily blinded by the light of the transportation terminal. After so many hours of sitting, his legs were numb and muscles weak. They stumbled out of the vessel, dragging their bags behind them. Lister threw his down on the ground and gave a great, back-cracking stretch, and as his head tilted back, he popped open his eyes and froze.

“Woah,” he said, startled.

The sky above them was -- well, not a sky, really. It was a series of hexagonal glass panes; a dome. He recalled then that Io consisted of a series of domes situated in craters across the volcanic moon’s surface.

Before them stretched the city of Galileo III -- tall, shiny, shimmering skyscrapers, just reaching the tip of the domed sky. It looked like any other city, he supposed, besides the dome, and the fact that everything seemed so clean and new. It wasn’t like any of the other planets he’d visited since leaving Earth -- many of them seemed dirty, dingy, and in perpetual states of disrepair. And it certainly wasn’t like Earth itself.

Rimmer followed his gaze up to the sky and shrugged. “I’ll get us a cab,” he mumbled, and wandered over to the street, jiggling one of his numb legs as he went.

They drove out to the hotel, which was in the heart of the city, and once inside their room, Rimmer changed into his suit quickly.

“Y’sure you don’t want me to go?” Lister asked.

“What, in that?” Rimmer scowled at his dirty khakis and t-shirt.

“Hey, I packed other things. I can make meself presentable!”

“No,” Rimmer said. “It’s best you don’t.” And he left.

Lister shrugged and sat down on one of the beds. It was strange sitting on a real, actual bed, not a claustrophobic bunk. It was strange having his feet on real ground -- well, almost real ground.

After a few moments of this novelty, he decided he ought to go out and see the city.

* * *

Galileo III was too perfect.

That what Lister had concluded after walking its streets for the past hour. Clean, wide flat streets and pavements; shiny glass and metal structures; tidy little parks of gray cement, metal benches, green ovals, tiny trees, and some sort of respectable, unobtrusive flower, like a tulip or a pansy. The shops weren’t much better; the only one he went into, to get something to eat, he felt like he was being watched and followed every step of the way.

_No wonder Rimmer’s so neurotic._

Growing up on Earth, Lister had been surrounded by people who talked about space colonists in tones that ranged from disgust to outright anger. Of course most original colonists and their descendants were wealthy and important people; in the decades after the first successful colonies had been established and Earth, which was rapidly running out of space, became more and more overpopulated, a sort of “white flight” had occured, with the privileged few able to strike out and start over again on new planetoids. Even now, when space travel was so much more affordable and accessible to everyone, old colonial families were known for their arrogance and sense of superiority, and tended to keep to themselves in elite enclaves like Io.

Having spent most of his time in space in heavily populated port cities and tourist towns, Lister hadn’t really experienced the full extent of this divide before. To him, it had seemed like space was just full or ordinary people more or less like him, who just happened to live on a moon orbiting Saturn. But now … he felt wrong here. Like an intruder. Like his kind wasn’t wanted here at all.

He began to head back to the hotel. He was rounding the corner of the street the hotel was on when he saw Rimmer walking towards him. He looked tired and pale. He’d removed his tie; Lister could just see it poking it out of the pocket of his jacket, all crumpled up -- very un-Rimmer-like, in his opinion. The top two buttons of his shirt were open, as though he needed the room to breath.

“Is it already over?” he asked curiously when Rimmer reached him.

“I decided not to go back to the house,” Rimmer muttered, not meeting his eyes. Lister got the impression that something ugly had happened at the service. He decided not to prod.

“So what do you want t’do, man? Have you eaten? You should eat something.”

Rimmer shrugged.

“Show me where to go,” Lister said, a little urgently. He hoped giving Rimmer some mindless task would take his mind off of everything. “Frankly, this place is kind of spooky.”

Rimmer blinked and looked around at the city surrounding them as though seeing it for the first time. “Yes,” he said at last. “I suppose it is.”

* * *

Rimmer took him to a shop where they got tidy little sandwiches, with fillings like cheese and pickle and coronation chicken. Rimmer ate his mechanically, leaving the crusts behind.

Afterwards, they boarded an elevated subway, because Lister had asked if the entire city was the same. It turned out it wasn’t, but the rest of it wasn’t much better in his opinion. There was a manufacturing district, all shiny domed Quonset huts; a slightly less posh neighborhood, identical white brick row houses. And then there was Rimmer’s old neighborhood.

“This is where you grew up, then?” Lister asked, peering out the window at the lush green, manicured gardens and rambling houses. It seemed like a perfect, pristine replica of Earth’s long ago redeveloped suburbs, but made all the more bizarre by its location on the outskirts of the dome; in the distance, beyond the glass plates and metal struts you could clearly see Io’s wild, volcanic, turbulent surface. What a peculiar place to live.

“Yes,” Rimmer said.

“D’you miss it?”

Rimmer looked at him like he was mad.

“I miss me home,” Lister said, defensively. “I mean, it ain’t perfect, but …”

Rimmer craned his neck, distracted by something in the distance. “There’s my school,” he said suddenly. “Io House.”

It was a large brick construction on the edge of the residential neighborhood, surrounded by an approximation of what woods might look like.

“So this is where they make Rimmers then?” Lister said with humor.

“This is where they made this one,” Rimmer said, scowling. “All of my brothers went off world to better schools. What a joke.”

“Looks pretty empty,” Lister observed.

“School holidays.”

They were silent a beat, and then Lister spoke. “Want to break in and snoop around?”

* * *

It was late afternoon as they disembarked the train. They walked up the long gravel drive to the school. Lister was amazed that he’d managed to talk Rimmer into this, but suspected it was down to the sips of whiskey he’d been pushing on him all during their long train ride; he’d smuggled it along from his room on Red Dwarf.

“There’s bound to be cameras,” Rimmer mumbled now, beginning to look a bit panicky. “This is a terrible idea.”

“That’s what makes it so much fun,” Lister said with confidence. He followed the perimeter of the fence, gripping the bars to test their soundness. Finally he found one that was loose. With a little bit of effort, he was able to pry it out. Rimmer stood there watching him, mouth agape, making funny little noises as though he wanted to reprimand Lister but was too afraid of making too much noise and being caught. Instead he just took a sip of the whiskey, which Lister had removed from his jacket pocket and handed to him in an effort to distract him.

It was a bit of a tight fit, but Lister managed to slip through the gap in the bars. “Come on, Rimmer,” he hissed. Rimmer bit his lip, and then took another slug of whiskey, and followed him. He didn’t have any trouble fitting, Lister noted. Skinny git.

“Is there some kind of security station?” he whispered once Rimmer had joined him.

Rimmer pointed to a hut over near the entrance. “There.”

Lister began to head in that direction, but Rimmer grabbed his arm. “Lister, let’s go back.”

“Come on, man.”

“If we get arrested, I’ll never become an officer! It’s all right for you, you don’t care, but --”

“We ain’t goin’ to get caught. Trust me.” He tugged on his arm, and Rimmer, face a jumble of conflict, let go.

When they reached the security hut, Lister pressed against the wall and peered inside one of the windows. There was a single guard on duty, and he was asleep, an open packet of crisps in his lap, illuminated by the glow of security screens. On the table in front of him sat a pile of key cards. Turning his attention to the outside of the building, he spotted where the electrical wires were hooked up. It only took a little time for him to figure out how to unhook them. He’d always had a knack for electronics.

Next he crept over to the door of the hut and, very carefully, eased it open. He shot a look back and saw that Rimmer was pressed up tight against the wall, hiding around the corner, looking petrified. He smirked, and ducked his head inside. In the dim room, now lit only by exterior light, he could see the guard still asleep. Carefully, he reached out and snatched the key cards, then backed out of the room, closed the door, and, after a few false tries, found the correct card to lock it.

“Come on,” he whispered, beckoning Rimmer. “Let’s do this!”

* * *

The front entrance led into a wide hallway which smelled strongly of wood polish, institutional lunches, and adolescent misery. Lister fumbled around until he felt the light switch. Rimmer stood blinking in the light, looking somewhat bewildered.

“It’s …”

“What?” Lister prodded.

“Small,” Rimmer clarified. “It’s a lot smaller than I remember.”

Lister strode over to a painting that was hanging by the entrance. “Who’s this, then?”

“Wilberforce Mervin Pendleton-Fickett III, one of the first settlers of Io and Io House’s founder,” Rimmer said, with an air of rote memorization.

“Ugly bugger,” Lister observed, and ducked into what looked to be the secretary’s office. He returned a moment later with two thick black markers, one of which he tossed to Rimmer. Surprised, he managed to catch it, but only after it bounced off his face and he splashed some whiskey on to himself.

“What’s this for?” he said, and then gasped, for Lister was already in the process of drawing thick, heavy eyebrows on Wilberforce Mervin Pendleton-Fickett III’s stern visage. “Are you mad? Lister! Stop!”

“Come on!” Lister laughed. “It’ll be cathartic, like. Here.” He pointed to Pendleton-Fickett’s thin-lipped mouth. “That could use some work.”

Rimmer stared at him in horror. He looked as though he were about to crap his pants. “I -- I can’t --”

“Sure you can,” Lister said. “Here, give me that.” He strode over, took the whiskey flask from Rimmer’s hand (which stayed frozen in position as though he were still holding it), sealed it and put it away. Then he took Rimmer’s marker, uncapped it, placed it back in his hand, and pulled Rimmer over to the painting.

“No! No!” Rimmer gasped, but as though in a dream, he allowed Lister’s hand to guide his own over Pendleton-Fickett’s painted mouth and in one fell swoop, blacked out a tooth. “ _Oh God._ ” Another tooth went. Next, two fangs were added, one on each side of the mouth. Then above the upper lip, a scraggly moustache. It was at this point that Rimmer suddenly seemed to realize that Lister had let go of his hand and that it was in fact he, himself, who was committing vandalism on his school’s founder’s portrait. “Oh, smeg,” he whispered, and began to draw a curly beard as well.

“Nice,” Lister said approvingly, and set to work adding some wickedly pointed horns.

* * *

By the time they were done, Wilberforce Mervin Pendleton-Fickett III was unrecognizable. Rimmer’s face was flushed and he was grinning a little madly.

“Where’s that whiskey?” he asked Lister, who pulled it out of his pocket and handed it to him. Rimmer took a long swig of it.

“What next?” Lister asked, taking it back and having some himself. Smeg, it was nearly gone. “Give me the tour, Rimsy.”

So Rimmer led him through the school, pointing out various classrooms, usually relating one or another humiliating stories about his schooldays related to each one. They went inside and wrote obscene messages on the boards and threw all of the erasers out of the windows. Finding themselves feeling a bit peckish, they found their way into the kitchens, but the only thing they could that was remotely edible was an enormous supply of oaty flapjacks. Finally, they went down to the gymnasium, a place of particular torment for Rimmer, and pulled out all the rugby training supplies. Using some tackle bags, contact suits, and of course the dreaded scrum machine, they created a truly offensive diorama that had them both laughing so hysterically they could scarcely stand for a few moments.

“Where’s the headmaster’s office?” Lister asked when they regained their senses.

Rimmer’s eyes grew wide.

* * *

It took them a little time to identify the correct key card to get into the office. Once inside, Lister bounded directly over to the headmaster’s large and comfortable chair, plopped himself down, put his feet up on the desk, and took out a cigarette.

“Now, Mr. Rimmer,” he said as he lit up, “what trouble have you got yourself into this time, eh?”

Rimmer, who was almost as lit as Lister’s fag, dragged himself laughing over to one of the chairs in front of the desk. “Nothing -- nothing, headmaster, I swear --”

“Really? Wesley Smythe-Arsewipe says differently! You’d better confess quickly or you’ll get yourself a whole heap of demerits! You wouldn’t like that, would you?”

“Stop,” Rimmer gasped. He was laughing so hard he was crying and clutching his stomach as though it hurt. “Stop, stop, no more.”

Lister let out a long plume of smoke. “Brings back fond memories, don’t it?”

“About as fond as you’d imagine.”

Lister leaned forward and peered at the name written on the desk. “Rufus Farcastle,” he read.

“Really? Is old Fartcastle still in charge? He must be pushing ninety. Hold on!” Rimmer leapt up suddenly, and a little unsteadily. He walked over to Lister’s side of the desk and began opening drawers. At Lister’s curious look, he explained, “They always used to say that when he’d open one these drawers you could hear bottles rattling -- ah ha!” Triumphantly he held up a half empty bottle of brandy.

“Jackpot!” Lister said with approval.

After a few improving sips, Lister decided trying to break into the school’s electronic records was an excellent idea. “Any ideas what the password might be?” he asked as Rimmer pulled a chair over to sit next to him.

Rimmer leaned onto the desk. “I don’t know. _Password?_ ”

Lister shrugged and typed it in. “No smeggin’ way,” he said delightedly as the mainframe began to boot. “That’s smeggin’ unbelievable.”

They amused themselves by reading through disciplinary letters, teacher evaluations, and the school’s capital campaign records. Then Lister got an idea. “How far back do the student records go?” he wondered. “Can we look you up?”

Rimmer frowned. “No,” he said.

“Come on, don’t you want to read what your teachers said about you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Don’t be embarrassed. I was a shite student. And look at me now!”

Rimmer looked at him.

“Here, I’m doin’ it. Prepare thyself.”

“Ugh.” Rimmer leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. After a few minutes of silence, he popped open one eye. “Well?”

“Eh, this ain’t so bad, mate. Look! You got good grades in geography.”

“Only for a few years.”

“Well, you did okay in art and music, too. Here, your teacher says that when you focus yourself you ‘learn concepts quickly and with a great attention to detail.’ And your history teacher liked you too! Says here, ‘Arnold has a great capacity for understanding topics which interest him, but he needs to apply himself better to his assignments’. Well, that’s mostly good.”

“Art, music, and history. Who cares about that?” Rimmer grumbled.

“Well, artists and musicians and historians, for one.”

“ _He_ didn’t.” Rimmer looked away.

Lister frowned. He shut down the computer and stood up. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s blow this joint.”


	3. In which Rimmer dwells on the past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys eventually make it off of Io, but not before they go for a hike in the woods, Lister (shockingly) takes a shower, and Rimmer suffers a series of embarrassing flashbacks.
> 
> Actually, not much really happens in this chapter, which is amazing since it took me so long to finish it.

As they walked down the hall, Rimmer yawned. “I can’t believe we did this,” he said, staring at the portrait of Pendleton-Fickett. “You’re a terrible influence, Lister.”

 

“So they say,” Lister said, but he looked distracted. “Er, is there a back entrance?”

 

“What?” Rimmer looked up. There were flashing lights coming from outside the front of the building. “Smeg! We’re done for!” He looked around desperately. “This way!”

 

They ran back down the hall, through the caf, and then the kitchens, where there was a door leading out back near the rugby pitch. Rimmer led them to a gate. “Where’s the smegging keycards?” he hissed urgently. As soon as they found the right one, they pushed through the gate, throwing the keycards into a bush nearby and Rimmer led them into the woods behind the school.

 

“Do you know where you’re going?” Lister asked, as the school and the flashing lights of the police faded away beyond a curtain of trees and shrubs.

 

“Generally,” Rimmer said. He stopped and looked back and forth. “It’s a bit dark.” Nodding, he headed off in one direction, Lister rushing to catch up.

 

For fake woods, this place looked pretty realistically like the wilderness. It smelled like pinesap and dirt. There were dead leaves and pinecones crunching beneath their feet. He could hear birds chirping distantly overhead. For a city boy from Liverpool, it was a bit disconcerting.

 

“So where are we going?” he asked, as Rimmer peered into the comparative darkness and began to follow what looked like a very subtle path in the undergrowth.

 

“I don’t know if it’s still here,” he said, almost to himself, and then louder, “I used to go back here sometimes. When I didn’t want to be found.”

 

“During rugby practice?” Lister smiled.

 

“Yes. And calculus exams, and study periods, and assemblies --”

 

“Why assemblies?”

 

“Have you ever stood in an assembly hall surrounded by boys who despise you and have no sense of personal space?”

 

“Can’t say I have.”

 

“Well, it’s very uncomfortable.”

 

They hiked in silence for a bit. Coming across a little muddy stream, they followed it. Eventually it got dark enough that Lister took out his lighter and flicked it on, giving them a little light to go by. By the time Lister was starting to worry that Rimmer had gotten them lost, the other man stopped and let out a little surprised and delighted laugh. “It _is_ still here!”

 

“It” turned out to be a diminutive wooden structure, decaying and only half standing. It looked like it might have been an old maintenance shed.

 

“This is where you used to go?” Lister asked, bemused. The lighter sputtered out and he flicked it a few times, swearing.

 

“Hold on,” Rimmer said, and began feeling along the ground outside the little house. “I used to keep a solar lantern around here somewhere…” It took a little while, but eventually he found it, half covered in leaves. He fumbled around with the lantern for a few minutes, and then found the switch and flicked it on. It gave off a warm, yellow glow.

 

Inside the shed, there was an old vinyl camping chair, an old wooden storage chest, a little bookcase filled with what looked like magazines and comic books, and a half-finished model of a Space Corps fighter jet, surrounded by long-calcified paints and dirty brushes.

 

Rimmer dropped the solar lantern on the floor and sunk into the camping chair with a sigh.

 

“You okay, man?” Lister asked, dusting off a stack of comic books. “Woah! _Neo-New-Super-Iron Man_!”

 

“I’m fine,” Rimmer sighed. He craned his head to look around the room and smiled. “I loved this place.”

 

“I have to say, it’s pretty cool,” Lister said, picking up the model of the ship and holding it into the light. “You dork.”

 

Rimmer reached out a hand. “Give me that,” he said, with a little of his usual testiness. Lister handed him the model. He held it up close and inspected it as though he were evaluating an antique. “Hmph. Shoddy workmanship.”

 

Lister poked around in the storage chest and found an old moth eaten sleeping bag. He shook it out a little and laid it down on the ground, then made himself comfortable and began reading one of Rimmer’s old comic books. For awhile they sat in companionable silence, Lister reading and Rimmer merely resting. Until Lister heard what sounded distinctly like a sniffle.

 

He looked up cautiously. Rimmer was sitting with his head tilted back, one hand pressed to his forehead, not unlike the way he had in the transportation shuttle from Red Dwarf. Except this time Lister was pretty certain he was crying.

 

“Oh, Rimmer,” he said. “Are you okay, mate?”

 

“No,” Rimmer said, his voice shaking. “My smegging father’s dead, of course I’m not okay.”

 

 _That’s one hell of a delayed reaction_ , Lister thought, ditching the comic book and crawling over to where Rimmer was seated. He awkwardly patted him on the shoulder. “There, there.”

 

“How dare he, the smegging bastard?” Rimmer muttered. He wiped his face the side of one hand. “The smegging nerve. The stupid goit just up and dies before I can ever prove myself to him, gain his respect and admiration. Now it’s too late.” He snuffled again. “Though to be realistic, it was probably never going to happen anyway.”

 

Lister wisely said nothing.

 

“You know what really smegged me off today at the service?”

 

“What?”

 

“Smegging Frank. He made a crack about how he probably wasn’t even my father. And Mother didn’t even say anything to contradict him.”

 

Lister shrugged. “Would that be so bad? I mean, he was a git, you hated him, and he made you miserable.”

 

Rimmer shrugged. “I don’t know. If he isn’t my father, then I’ve just wasted my smegging life trying to live up to being his son, haven’t I?”

 

Laughing a little, Lister said, “You’re barely thirty, Rimmer! Think of all the decades you have left to do what you want without worrying about his smegging approval.”

 

“Like what, exactly? There’s nothing I’m good at, not really.”

 

“Aw, Rimmer, don’t be like this. You know that ain’t true.”

 

“Well, if it ‘ain’t’ true, Lister, then tell me.”

 

Lister froze, eyes shooting around guiltily. “Er … well … you’re good at … remembering different shades of grey?”

 

Rimmer grunted.

 

“And categorizing telegraph poles?”

 

“Go on.”

 

“And making timetables.”

 

“True,” Rimmer conceded.

 

“There you are,” Lister said, and he rolled back over to the sleeping bag.

 

“Lister,” Rimmer said, sounding thoughtful.

 

“Eh?” Lister said, picking up the comic book again.

 

“I think I might take that career assessment test after all.”

 

“Good on yah, Rimmer,” Lister said, and turned the page.

 

* * *

 

At some point they both nodded off. When Rimmer woke up, it was completely pitch black, the solar lantern having gone out, and Lister had grabbed him by the ankle and was jiggling his leg.

 

“Oi, Rimmer. Wake up.”

 

“Wha -- wha --” Rimmer gasped, and nearly fell out of the flimsy camping chair. “What time is it? Smeg, my head.” It was pounding as though a thousand gazelles were stampeding through it.

 

“Dunno,” Lister said, “but it’s probably safe to leave. Surely the police have gone by now.”

 

Rimmer groaned, suddenly, remembering the night’s events. Had he really -- how -- how could he be so stupid to let Lister talk him into --

 

Still. It had been awfully fun.

 

He imagined these were the sorts of escapades one got up to at university with their chums. He’d never had any such experiences, of course. He’d withdrawn from the Polytechnic after one disastrous term, then after a quick maintenance course on Saturn had joined straight up with the JMC. No hooliganism for him!

 

He supposed he’d rather missed out.

 

Now he stood up, shakily, and stretched. “The train won’t be running now,” he said. “We’ll have to take a cab.”

 

“First we have to find our way out of here,” Lister said, rising as well.

 

They spent about twenty-five minutes stomping through the woods until they stumbled out onto a quiet, dark street. Within an hour they were back in the hotel, exhausted, dirty, and a little flush with the adrenaline-fueled sensation of victory of an evening of mischief.

 

After showering and climbing into his bed, Rimmer expected to drift off back to sleep again immediately, but found to his distress that his mind was racing. He listened to the sound of Lister’s own shower, a comforting familiar sound to which he sometimes fell asleep (though, in his opinion, not often enough, Lister’s extremely inferior hygiene taken into consideration). But not now. After Lister jumped into his own bed, he gave a glorious contented sigh, and within minutes was snoring away like a hacksaw.

 

He couldn’t stop replaying parts of the day in his mind. Rushing to the church, still trying to get his smegging tie to lie flat as he entered and rushed to the front pews; his family staring at him with barely contained contempt as he squeezed in and took a seat; the mind-numbing banality of the service itself, in which people who barely knew his father told great, fat lies about his character and legacy; Frank’s sneering face afterwards: “Well, I suppose you want to come back to the house now?”

 

Rimmer shut his eyes tightly until there were bright flashing lights purpling the insides of his eyelids. The resulting argument -- if you could call Frank and Mother’s increasingly hostile comments while he gritted his teeth and smiled wider and wider until his face felt like it might split, and Howard ignored them, and John looked faintly pained but kept his mouth shut -- if you could call that an “argument” -- had ended with him finally clearing his throat and saying, in a voice so sickeningly pleasant it actually left a disgusting taste in his mouth: “Well, it’s been nice seeing you all again. I suppose I’ll be heading off now.” Then he had turned and walked mechanically down the aisle and left the church, almost tripping over the door jamb because he was blinded with rage and humiliation.

 

Should he have just sucked it up and gone back to the house with them? Stood around, ignoring his family, shaking people’s hands, and watching the clock intensely, wondering how long he needed to stay before he could beat a hasty retreat? He pictured the house, its gabled roof, the red door, the gardens out back where he used to hide from his brothers. He’d spent hours out there, making up stories for himself, pretending that he was in the midst of dark wood instead of his own back garden. Or sometimes he’d help Mr. Danko, the gardener, who was a little strange but always kind to him. He’d liked Mr. Danko. He’d shown him how to train a rose bush on a trellis, how to transplant and make cuttings, how to lift and divide the irises to encourage them to grow more. His brothers called him Dungo and said he smelled of manure and he talked to himself. “He isn’t talking to himself,” Rimmer had said bravely one time, “he’s talking to the plants. He says it helps them grow.” They’d laughed and laughed.

 

And then there was Laika -- the family’s German pointer, who everyone got bored with after the first few weeks except Rimmer. He’d spent weeks reading dog training books and had made it his mission to make Laika the best, the most alert, and the most obedient canine Io had ever seen. He’d perhaps succeeded about twenty-five percent. But then, he was nine years old, and only really home over the holidays. In any case, Laika had loved him more than any human being had ever loved him, he was sure. When he’d divorced his parents, he’d demanded that he still got to see the dog; and that had lasted maybe eleven months, and then he’d shown up one day and been told the dog had been put to sleep because she had cancer. He’d never quite believed it. He was sure they’d given her away, just to spite him. Whenever he visited his parents’ house, he couldn’t help but think of the damn dog.

 

Rimmer opened his eyes. Across from him on the other bed, Lister was passed out on his stomach, head turned towards him and mouth open, snoring away. Since they normally slept in a bunk, he’d never really watched Lister sleep before, just heard the awful aural product of it. Even when he woke up and Lister was still inevitably asleep, he didn’t really look at him -- why would he? -- he just bustled around the sleeping quarters making as much racket as possible in an effort to wake him up. Now he watched the relaxed lines of his bunkmate’s face, wondering why on Io Lister had come here with him, and then, as Lister shifted and his fist drifted slowly towards his face until his thumb had slid loosely into his open mouth, Rimmer turned his head away and stifled his laughter into his pillow. At some point after that -- he wasn’t sure how long -- he finally fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

“Arnie? Arnold Rimmer?”

 

It was nearly two o’clock and he and Lister had just stepped out of the cab outside the spaceport when he heard the voice. He froze instinctively. Who could it be? He supposed it was only a matter of time. Galileo III was big, but somehow everyone knew each other. Or at least, it seemed that everyone knew his family.

 

Next to him, Lister turned around and look back, squinting. “Oi, Rimmer. Some girl wants to talk to you.” He blinked. “Never thought I’d hear myself saying that.”

 

Reluctantly, he turned around. Indeed, there was a woman there -- short brown hair, black plastic glasses, very familiar face but he couldn’t quite place it at first -- and she was running over --

 

“Arnie,” she said. “I heard about your father -- I’m sorry.”

 

“Ah,” he said, plastering a fake smile on his face and trying desperately to remember her name and how he knew her.

 

Suddenly she let out a little laugh. “Oh! I’m sorry. You don’t remember me. Well, why would you? It’s been at least ten years -- no, more. Anyway, I’m Wendy. Wendy Rathmullen. We were at the Polytechnic together.”

 

“Oh,” he said. Oh. He blinked, and his mind spun.

 

“Yes, that’s right,” she said, “ _You’re a guinea pig_. That’s me.”

 

“Oh,” he said again, feeling as though the ground might just swallow him up whole.

 

“Hi,” Lister said next to him. “I’m Dave.”

 

“Oh, hello!” she said. “You must work with Arnie.”

 

“Something like that,” Lister said, and looked over at him, but Rimmer was too busy remembering …

 

Remembering …

 

_“Hey, wait. Hold on.” Rimmer stopped in the hall outside the lecture hall, watching his father’s retreating back, feeling as though his stomach was crawl up his throat and out mouth, his whole body thrumming with adrenaline. The girl who had sat next to him was standing next to him, biting her lip. “Can we start over? I’m Wendy. And I wasn’t trying to insult you. I wanted to tell you -- your father -- I mean, Lecturer Rimmer -- it was an experiment, a social experiment, and you were the subject. The guinea pig.” She frowned. “I was trying to warn you.”_

_A progression of emotions cycled through him. Embarrassment, anger, and a deep pang of regret. His mouth opened, but no words come out._

_“It’s all right,” she said, holding up a hand. She looked down the hall, in the direction his father had disappeared. “For what it’s worth,” she said slowly and evenly, “I think your father is an absolute smegger.”_

_Rimmer blinked a few times. And then he laughed._

“I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you,” Rimmer blurted out, coming out of his reverie. “Your -- hair. It’s different.”

 

She reached up and touched it. “Oh. I guess it is.”

 

There was an awkward pause, and then --

 

“So how are you --”

 

“I hope you’ve been --”

 

They stopped and laughed.

 

“You go first,” Rimmer said, rather not wanting to talk about himself. What would he say? _I’m a vending machine repairman and as a hobby I fail exams?_

 

“Well,”  Wendy said, “there’s nothing much to say. Still stuck here on Io.” She shrugged.

 

“What do you do?”

 

“I work in the public records office as a clerk.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“So …” she prodded him gently, “You’re still with the JMC, I see.”

 

“Yes,” he said with great reluctance. “I’m … a technician.”

 

Wendy’s smile faltered a bit. “Oh,” she said significantly, and Rimmer thought, a little sadly.

 

“Uh,” Lister said. Rimmer jumped -- he’d forgotten that he was even there for a moment. “Sorry, but we need to catch our shuttle.”

 

“Oh, sorry!” Wendy said. “I need to get back to work, too, anyway. I was just here to pick up a delivery. Um…” She rustled around in her bag, and produced a pen. “I want to give you my contact info … smeg, I don’t have any paper --”

 

Before he realized what he was doing, Rimmer was shoving his sleeve up and offering her his bare arm. “Write it on here,” he said.

 

She laughed. “Deja vu!” she declared, and bent down to scribble on his arm. Rimmer realized she was right -- they’d done this once before -- the day before he left Io Polytechnic after being sent down, but … he’d never contacted her … because …

 

“Goodbye!” she said, capping her pen and stepping back. “Nice to meet you, Dave.” She pointed at Rimmer. “You’d better call me this time, miladdo.”

 

“Well,” Lister said as she ran off. “She seems to like you! You’ve got some secrets, Second Technician Rimmer.”

 

Rimmer frowned at him and shook his head. “Lister,” he said, “Wendy is a lesbian.”

 

* * *

 

_He’d wanted to ask Wendy out the whole term. He’d never met a girl who was so friendly to him. Or so patient. But he couldn’t muster up the courage -- he just didn’t know how. He hadn’t yet learned the mesmer stare. And he was, well, frightened._

_When he’d known that he wasn’t going to be able to stay next term, the panic that resulted finally spurred him into action. He realized this was his last chance. He might never see her again. He needed to act._

_So he’d girded his loins, so to speak, and went to wait outside of Wendy’s history lecture. When the tutorial ended and the students filed out, he watched each one go, a robotic smile on his face. But Wendy wasn’t among them. He frowned. Was she ill? Should he go to her dormitory? A wave of nausea passed through him. He didn’t think this rush of adrenaline could get him through attempting admittance into a girl’s dormitory._

_Maybe she’s staying behind for some reason, he thought. And so he took a peek inside the lecture hall._

_Wendy was there, but she wasn’t alone. There was another girl there, too. And they were kissing._

_He watched them for several moments, an array of emotions passing through him - dismay, embarrassment, panic, and a slight twinge of arousal. Then Wendy noticed him._

_“Oh -- smeg -- Arnie,” she said, and the other girl -- a tall, sturdy redhead -- turned to look at him and paled._

_“It’s all right, Maggie,” Wendy said. “He’s my friend.”_

_He said nothing. Half of him was jumping for joy at the novel experience of another referring to him as their “friend” -- the other was -- was --_

_\-- Profoundly disappointed._

_Maggie left, not looking him as she passed by._

_“Arnie,” Wendy said softly. “You won’t -- you won’t say anything to anyone, will you?” She paused. “Please. You know how they are here.”_

_How they are. Yes, he certainly knew. He thought of Frank, curling his lip at a news story on Channel 27 -- “Smegging dykes” -- and he, eager for approval, had imitated his older brother’s expression, and thought to himself, Yeah, disgusting carpetmunchers._

_Wendy approached him, one arm outstretched -- and he said, abruptly, “Of course I won’t.”_

_She smiled._

_“Thank you, Arnie.” And she hugged him._

_He closed his eyes, savoring it. Then he said, “I’m leaving school.”_

_She stepped back, her face shocked. “What?”_

_“Well, I’ve failed pretty much everything, you see,” he said, with a little forced jollity. He cleared his throat. “There doesn’t seem to be much point to staying, is there?”_

_She shook her head. “Arnie, we’ve talked about this -- why do you insist on taking all of these courses that you don’t enjoy? You should do something else.”_

_“I think,” Rimmer said, ignoring her, “I think I’m going to join up with the JMC.”_

_She blinked. “What, and be a miner?”_

_“No, no, a technician.” He smiled. “I looked up the process last night. I just need to complete a few maintenance courses. I’ll work my way up the ranks.”_

_Wendy was looking at him as though he’d just said he was going to join the circus. “When do you leave?”_

_He swallowed. “Tomorrow.”_

_“So soon?”_

_“My course on Saturn starts next week.”_

_“Saturn, eh?” She looked sad. Then she reached into her satchel and began digging around in it, and finally pulled out a pen and her notebook, and paged through it, but every page was full. “I want to give you my contact info --”_

_“Here,” he said, suddenly, and rolled up his sleeve, sticking out his arm. “Just write it there.”_

_She grinned, and leaned over to do so. Her long hair tickled his arm._

_“Call me when you get to Saturn,” she said. “I want to hear all about it.”_

_“Sure,” he said, but he knew he wouldn’t._

_It was better, he thought, to make a clean break of it._

 

* * *

 

As the shuttle to Red Dwarf departed and he and Lister settled in the for the next few hours, Rimmer looked at the inky scrawl on his arm and wondered if perhaps he hadn’t made a big mistake that last day.

 

What would it have been like to have had Wendy as a friend for all these years?

 

His gaze drifted up and settled on Lister, sitting across from him, yawning and scratching his head. A little shiver of wonder suddenly passed through him, a sort of physical reaction that preceded the thought which drifted through his mind a moment later: Lister had come all this way here, for him. He had spent thirty-six hours on a backwater little moon that held no interest for him -- and why? He remembered again the wonderful, weird, terrifying rush of emotions that had passed through him the night before as Lister had led him deeper and deeper down the path of misadventure. Even now, less than a day later, the whole affair was gaining a sort of legendary cast to it; he couldn’t believe he had actually done all that! Not just the vandalism, though that was unbelievable enough as it was. But what astounded him even more was the relaxed familiarity that had grown between him and Lister that night. It was unlike anything he’d ever experienced with another person. Of course it had been helped along by copious amounts of alcohol, but it had grown so organically over the course of the evening, culminating in him sharing with Lister one of his most personal secrets -- his safest place, his hideout. And Lister had … respected it.

 

He didn’t know what to do with this. But, as he looked again at his arm and carefully rolled down his sleeve, he decided that he would try as hard as he could not to throw it away, whatever it was.

 

 


End file.
